Page 126 of Ruthless Creatures
All the fur on his scruff stands on end.
He lets out a low, rumbling growl and bares his teeth.
THIRTY
NAT
Looking at Mojo with her brows lifted, Sloane says, “Oh, no, that’s not freaky at all, doggo. What’s up with you?”
Staring at the window, I mutter, “Good question.”
I could swear I saw a flash of movement outside, but it’s too dark to tell.
I rise from the table and peer out into the yard. Past the small yellow pool of light from the kitchen window that’s illuminating the snow a few feet beyond the house, it’s pitch-black.
Someone could be standing there, looking back at me, and I wouldn’t be able to see him.
Gooseflesh crawls up my arms.
I yank the shade down and turn back to Sloane. Mojo is now on his feet, but he’s still staring at the window, growling.
“It’s okay, boy. Good dog.”
He whines, trotting over to me to nuzzle my outstretched hand with his snout. Then he sits down on his haunches beside me and leans against my leg, glancing around in alarm and trembling.
Sloane says, “Since when is he nervous?”
“Since never.”
We share a look. “I’ll lock the front door. You get the back.”
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested we smoke a bowl of crack cocaine and stick needles into our eyeballs. “You don’t lock your doors when you’re alone in the house? Do youwanta crazy person to come in and attack you?”
“You can rag on me after we check the locks.”
Mojo following behind me, I walk swiftly through the house to the front door. Sure enough, it’s unlocked—I forgot to do it after Sloane came in. Cursing myself, I throw the dead bolt. Then I make sure all the windows in the living room are locked.
I do the same with the bedroom and the rest of the house, going from room to room, pulling blinds and closing drapes where I find them open.
The dog sticks right by me the entire time.
I can’t tell who’s more worried, him or me.
When I get back to the kitchen, Sloane’s calmly opening another bottle of wine.
“So?”
“Your back door was locked. I checked the garage, too. All good. No crazy people.”
Relieved, I sit at the table and scratch Mojo behind his ears. He rests his snout on my thigh and looks up at me, his furry eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Mommy has an unloaded shotgun she can wave around and probably scare an intruder away with.”
Sloane pulls the cork from the wine bottle. “And Auntie Sloane has a snubnose .357 Magnum in her boot, whichisloaded, so youreallyshouldn’t worry.”
That shocks me. “Since when do you carry guns around in your shoes?”
In the middle of pouring herself another glass of wine, she stops and stares at me. “Since I went on a Mediterranean cruise with a dozen gangsters.”
